


Fast Shot

by naegiriko



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 1
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Dirty Talk, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Outdoor Sex, Pining, ww3 ended homophobia!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 00:36:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15108080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naegiriko/pseuds/naegiriko
Summary: The vault dweller's wound up. Ian fixes it, like everything else.





	Fast Shot

**Author's Note:**

> anyone noticed that the original fallout is one of the hardest games ever? anyway, here's some outdoorsy sex by a campfire

After leaving Vault 13, sleep comes hard. Gone are the days of pillows and sheets and air conditioning. The Overseer has ushered in a new age of desert heat and bedrolls for the vault dweller. He lacks the skills to do anything, he finds not even a week into his journey. He only finds a hole in his heart where is home was, and a gnawing hunger deep within him. 

He would be dead now, a hundred times over, if it weren’t for Ian. Ian, the Shady Sands native, who teaches him to shoot with a steely hand on top of his. Ian, who teaches him how to fold his fingers properly so that his next punch won’t hurt as much as the last. Ian, whose strong arm and leather sleeve are his new pillow.

To say the vault dweller is in denial is an understatement. To say he’s put up walls is more accurate. The attraction to Ian is undeniable, so he builds a partition. In the vault, he would’ve been destroyed for this. But even now, in the broad and deadly expanse of California, he carries the slurs and the feeling of cool metal at the back of his mind. 

It doesn’t help that there’s no way to read his traveling partner. Ian makes comments about women constantly, even made a pass at a Junktown waitress, but still, there’s something undeniably intentional about his smirks, his gestures, the playful lingering of his fingers against the vault dweller’s pale skin when he patches him up after a fight.

The combination of these things has the vault dweller wound up tight like a metal coil, rigid and pumped with potential energy. It’s been months since he’s touched himself, certainly not since he left the privacy of the vault, and even before that the action was rare and a grave indulgence. The guilt laced every buzz of pleasure in his body. He doesn’t miss the strangled cry of orgasm within echoing walls or the ideations of boys in blue, their large asses framed by a stitched yellow thirteen.

Needless to say, he is thrumming with life underneath his vault suit, unaware of his desire. He is lying flat on his back looking at the stars. This is his favorite thing to do outside the vault; his least favorites list longer than constellations. Ian is awake still, it’s around 1:30. He does this often: chainsmokes by the fireside, finishes off a beer. The vault dweller doesn’t like this. What is Ian thinking about? It worries him deeply to imagine the complexities of Ian’s life, to think of what might have occurred before the two crossed paths. Not the most healthy of thoughts, but it is true, racing through the vault dweller’s mind like a brahmin stampede.

He justifies his need for touch by claiming biological imperative. Like most justifications, it is incorrect and lacking sensibility. He tries another that seems more accurate: it is fear pulling the two together, the need for stability. This could be true, yet the vault dweller neglects the fact that Ian is not afraid, and has lived in the wasteland his entire life. Instead of sleeping or thinking any longer, the vault dweller peeks at Ian above the scratchy blanket of his bedroll. 

Ian isn’t doing much, really, but every slight action keeps the vault dweller gazing up at him like a lovestruck child. His forearm is stiff and veiny as he lifts the cigarette to his lips, he likes the way Ian’s fingers look blunt and thick next to the thin paper of it. He watches him flick the glowing bud of ash from the cigarette and take a deep sigh before puffing again, this time a long drag. The vault dweller is sad to see that Ian has smoked it all the way down to the filter, and crushed it under the fat layer of rubber underneath his boot. 

By now the rational thoughts and justifications of the vault dweller have disappeared. His hand is already skimming down his soft belly, vault suit fully unzipped. He is achingly hard, but his anxiety proves to be stubborn in allowing him to touch himself. Instead he plays with his nipples in tiny movements underneath the bedroll, straining against the blue fabric of his vault suit. A tiny pool is already forming at the tent of his suit. Ian coughs and the vault dweller is brought back to his environment to consider the best course of action: he could excuse himself to get up and piss, but his erection would be obvious. He could touch himself and risk Ian catching him, losing his companionship forever. The best option would be just falling asleep, the vault dweller thinks robotically. Another night of denial marks his calendar.

He is hazy, straddling the border between sleep and waking when he hears a sharp intake of breath among the crackling embers of the fire. His eyes open blearily, fixating on the bright light of the fire and the glint from polished weapons momentarily, before realizing what Ian is doing. His denim jeans are pushed halfway down his thighs, hand working between his legs thoroughly. The vault dweller can’t see anything yet, but he instantly recognizes the task, growing hard again, feeling excitement and nervous energy spill into every corner of his body.

Ian licks the palm of his hand with a flat tongue, letting the vault dweller see his swollen prick. It’s not anything to brag about, definitely not frighteningly long like the porn holotapes the vault dweller used to watch in the safety of his room. It is thick and strong looking, not unlike Ian himself. Arousal has filled it with blood; it stands angry and pink and begging for release. The vault dweller wants to whine, wants to touch and ask out loud but he can’t. With his body on autopilot, his hand snakes down his vault suit to tug at his cock. He feels a fleeting sense of inadequacy about his size, but quiets it with the notion that Ian won’t ever lay eyes on it. This attraction is a secret, padlocked in a steel box. 

The vault dweller’s hand feels almost like it’s moving by itself, rubbing up and down his feverishly, devoid of technique and lacking savor. Ian, on the other hand, gives his cock thorough attention, grazing the tip, holding it in a firm and steady stroke, letting his other hand play with his balls. The vault dweller’s toes curl. He doesn’t want the show to end, but Ian looks close. Beads of sweat gather at his forehead, his breathing his erratic. It looks like ropes of come will soon paint a picture on the cool desert sand.

“Enjoying yourself, kid?”

The vault dweller freezes and shuts his eyes, mimicking sleep. It occurs to him that Ian could kill him at any moment of their journey if they got into a disagreement. His cock still fails to soften at the thought, but his heart rate picks up greatly.

“You don’t have to do that, I saw your hand moving up and down underneath the blankets, doll. Don’t hide it.”

After a long moment of fearful silence, Ian adds, “I thought we could help each other out.” 

Ian steps closer until the vault dweller is looking up at him from the ground, completely vulnerable. Ian’s cock hangs low above him, dangerously close.

“Is that a yes or a no? Up to you, but it makes sense to me to kill two birds with one stone, if you know what I mean.”

A tiny affirmation slips out of the vault dweller’s lips. Ian smiles.

“What was that, now?” 

The vault dweller knows the satisfaction this must bring the man towering above him.

“Yes!” And he adds a tough, strained please to the syllable, politeness never fading.

Ian’s smile stretches from ear to ear and he sheds his boots and pants. The vault dweller notes his apparent lack of underwear. Maybe it’s a wasteland thing.

“Scoot over, vaultie, let’s see whatcha got.”

The vault dweller is like putty in his hands now, blinking dumbly and lying brutally exposed on the bedroll.

“God, you’re so...clean. It don’t look like you've got a single scar on you.”

Ian’s big hand runs along his side. The darkness of his caramel skin against the vault dweller’s pallor is stark. He continues like that for a while, just touching, almost tickling his skin. It seems as though Ian’s curiosity wins over his arousal until his thumb grazes over the vault dweller’s pink nipple and he whines.

“Aw, you like that, huh? Were you doing that to yourself earlier?”

The vault dweller nods and Ian pinches his nipple harshly, forcing a strangled cry from his throat. 

“Goddamn, you better pipe down. Don’t want a radscorpion to come scuttling over here, do you?”

The vault dweller wants to push himself towards Ian until their bodies are flushed together, he wants to push their lips together and lose himself. Instead he waits.

“I-I’m sorry.”

“Hey, I can’t blame you. I was struggling to shut up myself over there. 

You’re so quiet, you know that? Even with other people, you’re such a polite little shit. Woulda never thought you were the type to be jacking himself in front of somebody else. And god, look what a mess you’ve made from it already…” 

Ian’s hand finally closes around his wet cock and the sky looks even starrier in the moment before his eyes roll back in his head.

“Oh, wow. You've never been touched like this before, have you?”

“We weren't -- allowed to,” the vault dweller manages as Ian starts to move his hand. 

“Not allowed to have sex? How did y’all survive this long?”

“No, the gay part.”

“Huh?”

“You know, two men.”

Ian thinks for a moment. 

“I guess we don't see it that way out here,” he says casually, the other hand making lazy circles around the vault dweller’s nipple. 

He winces, a combination of pleasure and pain as he thinks of the vault. Ian stops his ministrations to put a hand on his face. 

“You sure you're okay?”

The vault dweller nods. He dreams of how Ian's lips would feel, only inches away from him. He is afraid to overstep his bounds. He also feels Ian's naked erection against his leg, feeling incredibly aroused and overwhelmed. 

“So, you’ve never done this with anybody? Not even a kiss? How old are you, anyway?”

The vault dweller shakes his head no. “Nineteen.”

Ian says nothing, but the vault dweller can feel the distance between them fading, fuzzing into heat and ruddy facial hair when Ian’s lips meet his. He feels a soaring sensation, like a great lift into the night sky, and pushes himself against his partner naturally, opening his mouth at odd angles and rushing into the kiss like a stallion.

“Are you in a hurry or something? Slow down for a second.”

Shame burns the vault dweller’s cheeks a roiling pink, but his body reacts favorably to the gentle reprimand, his cock twitching in Ian’s hand. His hands have worked into the dirty fabric of Ian’s white shirt underneath his leather jacket, but he can only feel so much of the other’s heat and sticky skin. More, more, more, his body demands, and the vault dweller wants to cry out for Ian to bare himself but his polite demeanor wins over. Instead he gives little cues, tugging at the end of his shirt and groaning into his mouth.

Ian obliges, seeming more than ready to reveal the sight that makes the vault dweller feel weak in the knees.

He is shades darker than the vault dweller, his tan lines are crisp and apparent against the gold of his skin. It’s no surprise that Ian would be muscular, after all the lifting and running and punching the vault dweller has seen him do, but he didn’t expect him to be ripped, with a gorgeous line of abdominal muscles and firm biceps forged from one-handed submachine gun use. The vault dweller can’t even compare himself to Ian, so he lets the self-comparison fade away and places his hands upon Ian’s pecs, his belly, his shoulders, everywhere. 

“You’re so worked up, honey…”

Ian’s cool and confident attitude has lost to the potency of his own arousal, his smirk has lost its nonchalance and instead his words are saccharine and genuine. And again, the vault dweller says nothing but gives himself to the feeling, lets Ian rub his cock fervently in his big, rough hands. 

“You like that, baby? You like how that feels?” 

Ian pumps harder, his thumb lingering on the head, and the timid vault dweller loses his composure. He clutches tight to Ian’s neck, rutting into him, desperate for friction. His whines have picked up in volume and frequency, the quiet desert night is lost to the both of them.

“Ian! Please!” 

The older man needs no more goading; he knows what the two of them need. He surges into the gap between them, holding the vault dweller’s pale, thin body against his, feeling the heat beneath his skin and the growing muscles there, firming up after years of disuse. The next kiss is ragged, all tongue and teeth, but it spells heaven for the both of them when Ian takes the two of them in his broad hands. The vault dweller swears as he looks down at the sight, Ian’s thick hands are coated in his own pre-come, being teased to the edge by his traveling companion.

There’s not much the vault dweller can do but look up at Ian, the labor of his breath, the incredible pleasure woven into the crease of his brow. He holds him tight as the vault dweller’s orgasm, the first in years, wracks his body. Ian strokes him through the jolts of pleasure, heavy spurts of come making their cocks move together so much better, easier, wetter. Ian manages to hold on a few more moments to watch the quiet vault dweller’s polite persona shred to pieces, watches him cry out into nothing and feel his hips buck up into Ian’s like an animal.

Ian holds tightly to the nape of the vault dweller’s neck as he comes, grabbing his small body with force as if it were a beloved pillow or a revered idol. He shouts a warrior’s cry. Come paints the vault dweller stomach and reaches all the way up to his chin, while his face has softened already, the round nose, the thick brows, the worried mouth. Ian waits for the moment when his shame will set in. He’s never been with a vaultie, but he knows the stories. They cling to the Old World. It is hard for them to escape the pull of tradition. 

It doesn’t come, at least, not how he expected. Ian hands him his shirt and he makes a little show out of wiping the come off his body, even tastes it, mutters a simple thank you, and zips up his vault suit like the alluring virgin he is. Ian kisses atop his sweaty forehead and snuggles into his bedroll, but it’s at least an hour until he falls asleep. He can’t stop thinking of the fire inside the vault dweller, the way he begged, the brazen look in his eyes, the raw sexuality in his movements. 

Ian waits patiently for him to grow into himself, into his destiny. He can’t wait to see the fire again. 

In his bedroll, or on the battlefield. Ian is not a picky man. 

He’ll take both.


End file.
